She stared at him, stunned.
Maybe he had never spoken to her that way in front of guests. Or maybe he had, and everyone had always agreed to pretend otherwise.
Slowly, Margaret sat.
The colonel looked at his daughter. “I should have told you years ago.”
Cassandra’s voice was small. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because I was ashamed.”
“Of being framed?”
“No.” He glanced at me. “Of letting a young woman carry the consequences of a war I should have seen coming.”
I did not like the softness spreading around the table. Sympathy made me uncomfortable when it arrived late. It felt like someone handing you an umbrella after the flood had already taken the house.
“You didn’t let me do anything,” I said. “I made my choices.”
“Yes,” he said. “And after you made them, men twice your age with ten times your power tried to crush you for it.”
My mother folded her arms. “Grace has always had a way of attracting conflict.”
The words landed neatly, as they always did. My mother never shouted when she cut me. She preferred a careful blade.
Cassandra stared at her. Ethan did too.
Colonel Whitaker’s eyes sharpened.
“Mrs. Mercer,” he said, “your daughter did not attract conflict. She walked into it because everyone else was too afraid to move.”
My mother pressed her lips together.
Dad cleared his throat. “Colonel, with respect, we didn’t know all the details.”
I turned toward him. “You didn’t want to.”
That silence was different.
It was no longer shock. It was recognition, slow and unwelcome.
Ethan rubbed both hands over his face. “Grace, I called you dramatic.”
“Yes.”
“I told Cassandra you liked making yourself the victim.”
“Yes.”
His eyes shone. “I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t ask.”
He flinched.
